The Five Stages of Grief
by Donny's Boy
Summary: April's dead, and Don's not dealing. Worse, his new archnemesis is an incompetent time apprentice in a ridiculous hat. Set in the 2003 & FF toon universes.
1. Denial

"The Five Stages of Grief"

By Donny's Boy

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Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the plot relating to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and I am making no money from this story. I mean no harm.

Warnings: Depicted character death, some mature language, some violence (very little blood/gore), and lots of angst.

Author's Notes: This story is set in the 2003/Fast Forward universe. It's not an official sequel to "Time's Prisoners," but I like thinking of this story as set in that same canon.

On an unrelated note, I'd told myself I would branch out and write some stories that aren't Don-centric and/or aren't angst. So what's this? Yup, more Donny angst. Heh.

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**Chapter 1: Denial**

The rain drizzles down half-heartedly, perfectly matching my mood. Like with most everyone, there are days that I really hate my job. Today is definitely one of those days—especially because this is the twenty-eighth time I've lived through this particular day. Unfortunately, it never gets any easier. And I highly doubt this will be the last time I'll have to live through it.

So it's with little enthusiasm that I follow my old friends from a distance. They're so happy. God, that kills me. They are so fucking _happy_ right now. They're chatting, laughing quietly amongst themselves. Every few yards, she reaches out to touch one of them—Leo's shoulder, Mikey's arm, Don's cheek, Raph's shell. As though she's deeply grateful for their mere existence. I feel my chest ache in sympathy. They'd been gone, without a trace left behind, for months. She must have been absolutely heartbroken.

At times I'd considered telling her that they would be back. Telling her where they'd gone—when they'd gone, actually. But of course I couldn't.

At the moment, though, it doesn't matter. Those dark days are long gone, though not forgotten, and despite the cloudy moonless sky overhead, her face positively shines with her current happiness. She has her family, fully intact. The ache in my chest deepens into a steady throb.

Today is the ten year anniversary of the day the boys finally returned from the twenty-second century and the days of Cody Jones. And it's about to become another sort of anniversary altogether.

Still chatting, the merry little group rounds a corner and disappears from view.

I pause. I don't want to follow anymore. I really, really don't. Closing my eyes, I turn my face up to the rain. It washes away the stray tears that trickle down my cheeks. With all my might I wish, for just a moment, that the universe would reach down and pluck the scepter from my hands. This damn, unforgiving scepter.

But there's no such thing as cheating fate. If anyone knows that, it's me. So I take a deep breath, quickly blink away the wetness stinging at my eyes, and walk around the corner.

As soon as I do, I find exactly what I've seen twenty-seven times previously. An ambush. _The_ ambush. The Foot have been secretly planning it for weeks now. The birth of an heir to the O'Neil Tech fortune didn't go unnoticed, and that woman—What's her name? The one who bugs Leo so much?—the Foot's current leader decided this was an excellent time to settle old scores.

My boys are good. There's no denying it. Years of daily training and a crash course with the Ninja Tribunal have assured that. They are liquid grace, steel glinting in the yellow streetlights, wood thudding softly against unyielding human flesh. They dance in the shadows, like good little ninjas, and I can just barely make out their silhouettes. Yes, my boys are very good. But they're outnumbered. Badly outnumbered.

Slowly I creep closer, careful to stay out of view. Tonight's assignment ought to be showing up any minute now, if I've done my calculations right, and I've got to be ready. My adversary is brilliant—he always has a trick or two up his sleeve.

The fight, as always, goes well for the boys. It goes well … at first. But then the Foot ninjas seem to really notice that _she's_ there. Like sharks smelling blood, they approach and circle her. She gets in a kick here, a punch there, but she's not a ninja. This is, as always, where things start to go wrong.

Inevitably, she goes down.

Leo's nearest by—if I couldn't tell from the outline of his swords, I could from simply having the events of this night beaten into my memory through sheer repetition. Yes, there Leo is, trying desperately to fight his way over to her. Then there's Raph, facing away from it all, still unaware of what's going on behind him. Mike's fighting at his side. With a gleeful whoop he leaps over an enemy, and as he does, he flings the man into some trashcans with skilled ease. Donny, meanwhile, is not quite so far away and has already seen her collapse. Like Leo, he begins fighting his way towards her, screaming her name.

My gut twists. I can hear the desperation, the pure terror, ripple through his voice. Though I've heard him scream exactly like this so many times, it never gets easier. It never stops hurting.

Then, as always, comes the flash of blinding blue light. It's like hitting pause on a—What's the tech they have in this century, anyways? VCRs? DVDs?—it's like hitting pause on a DVD player. All action stops, and everyone turns to stare at the newcomer who is now materializing in the wake of the fading blue light. He's clad in clothes not unlike those the Foot ninjas are wearing, simple and black, and a similar mask covers his entire head. Even so, I know all too well who he is. Although, even if I didn't, I'd be able to identify him easily.

Because the purple steel-and-fiberglass bo he carries in his right hand? It's a total giveaway.

Taking advantage of the hesitation, my newly-arrived adversary immediately leaps into the thick of things. Immediately he deals a crushing blow to the ninja who is looming over April. Then he spins his bo, its metallic tips flashing in the dark, and attacks the remaining ninjas with ferocious intensity. The distinct sound of a skull cracking echoes throughout the damp night air.

Meanwhile, my boys have resumed fighting, still working their way towards April but uneasy now. Unsure. Above the clash of swords, the yells and grunts, I hear Leo's voice shout, "Who _is_ that guy?"

Raph's reply is quick and decisive: "Who cares, as long as he's on our side?"

It's time. Edging my way carefully around the fighting ninjas, I position myself so that I have a clear line of sight on the newcomer. As I reach for the tranquilizer gun on my belt, I fight off a sudden wave of nausea. I hate this. I hate him. Why does he keep doing this to me? To _us_? Yet, at the same time, I can't help but admire him a little for his persistence. Twenty-seven times he's tried this. Twenty-seven times he's fought like a complete madman, lashing out wildly, frantically, with his bo staff. Twenty-seven times he's failed.

About to be twenty-eight.

Sighing deeply, I step out from the shadows. He catches the movement—long before now, he learned to keep an eye out for me—and he tries to duck behind the nearest enemy ninja. But they're pressing in all around him, and he can't. He has nowhere to go. We both know it. Trapped and defeated, he locks eyes with me and from behind his mask, as always, he glares in defiance. I grit my teeth then do as duty demands. I shoot him. Square in the chest. He slumps to the wet concrete without a sound.

A moment later, April screams and, as always, the scream cuts off with an unnatural suddenness. Thoroughly hating myself, I holster the tranq gun. I won't need the gun anymore, after all. It's done. Or as Lord Simultaneous would say, in the stuffy pretentious voice that grates on my every last nerve, "Destiny is fulfilled."

Yeah, well … sometimes, destiny _bites_.

By now, the boys have gathered around her, arguing in hushed, worried tones about what to do. The remaining conscious Foot ninjas, meanwhile, are slinking off into the darkness. I guess they know that they've done more than enough damage for one night. As Don bends over April, applying pressure to her wounds, Raph looks over at me with distrust written all over his face. His eyes narrow down to tiny, angry slits. Guiltily I turn away.

It's not until I hear a soft groan that I look back at the tragic scene unfolding a few yards away from me. My adversary is awake again, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. He glances around, seeming confused, until he sees the turtles gathered around their fallen friend.

"Dammit!" Staggering unsteadily to his feet, he rips off his mask. His face, as always, betrays his frustration and pain. Even though we've shared this moment too many times, I'm still slightly shocked when he takes off the mask. His brown eyes are deep-set, sunken almost, and his face has a long, jagged scar across the cheek. He looks old. Much older than he actually is.

"Donatello?"

I look over to see that Leo is squinting at the unmasked ninja and frowning that classic Leonardo frown. Donny, still kneeling on the pavement, doesn't even look up as he replies, with a hint of impatience, "_What_, Leo?"

The elder Don surges forward, reaching April in three long strides. He falls to his knees next to his younger self, staring hard, analyzing, planning. Even from a slight distance I can see the flash of hope in his eyes.

Before the turtles can really react, he grabs the younger Donny's wrist. "Let me help her," Don all but commands. "I'm older than you. More experienced."

Raph lets out a deep growl and starts forward menacingly. "What the hell kinda trick is this? Look, buddy, I don't know who or what you are—"

"It's not a trick." The older turtle turns to face Raph. He continues, voice high and taut, "When we were four, you used to be frightened of thunder. You would climb into bed with me during storms because you didn't want Mikey or Leo to know you were scared."

Many things about this damned night stay the same, but this moment differs. Sometimes Don tells the thunder story, but not always. Sometimes, instead, he talks about a six-year-old Leo crying when he saw a cat catch a mouse. Sometimes he mentions the time when he and Mikey were eleven and accidentally killed a stray dog.

Sometimes he merely points to me while snapping, "Tell them. Tell them it's really me." Which I always do, and which they always believe. All in all, there doesn't seem to be a rhyme or reason to why he tells a particular story any particular time. It must just be another ever-fluxing current through the chaotic river of time. 

Meanwhile, Raph is gaping in shock. Then he whirls to glare angrily at his brother. "Donny! You _swore_ not to tell!"

The younger Don holds up his hands in appeasement. "I didn't! I swear I never told a soul." And he hadn't. Realization dawns. Don's face turns pale, and he stands up and takes a step back from April's body. "Please," he says to the stranger who isn't a stranger. "Please, save her if you can."

As always, everyone watches in silence as Donatello works, deferring to his authority. Because they know now who he is? Maybe. But I suspect they'd defer even if they didn't know. There's something about this older Don that's … intimidating? Imposing, definitely. He carries himself with the assurance granted by advanced years and lived experience. More than that, he wears his grief like a suit of armor.

Don tries. He really, truly does. As always, he holds a rag to her bleeding wounds while applying firm, steady pressure. When her chest finally, inevitably, falls without rising again, he begins CPR. He doesn't falter once. He's done this twenty-eight times. It's almost second nature by now.

Then, as always, he stops. Time itself seems to stop, too, perhaps in sympathy. Pushing off the wet asphalt, standing stiffly, Donatello stares down at April's lifeless body for several long moments. He doesn't say a word. He just turns and brusquely walks away.

The remaining turtles shuffle their feet, nervous. Finally the younger Don kneels down to crouch over April.

"Is she … "

Silence, broken at last by a long sigh.

"Yeah."

Turning my head, I take after my thwarted nemesis. It isn't hard to catch up. His walk is slow, slow as molasses, and broken. From behind someone calls out my name, but I ignore it. Donny rounds the corner of the nearest building, disappearing into shadows and alleyway, and I follow.

"Don, hold up!"

He freezes but doesn't turn around. He waits, patiently. Always, always patient—that's his great strength. And he might just win one of these days, by simply and slowly wearing me down.

Sometimes I have to wonder if he's actually counting on that.

Thinking, I bite my lip. I know this conversation tends to not go well, but … even Donatello's maddening, exhausting perseverance hasn't destroyed _all_ my optimism. Not quite yet. In a voice loud enough to carry to where he stands, I try in a joking tone, "So, what are my chances of getting you to turn over that portable time machine of yours? Not good, I bet."

"Hmm." He pretends to think it over. "I'd that's a pretty good bet."

I growl in frustration and, I admit, a bit of despair. "How many goddamn times," I snap at him, "are you going to make us relive her death?" 

He whirls around at that. He glares at me, unrepentant, and replies coldly, "That depends. How many times do you plan to stop me from saving her?"

"It isn't my choice." I sigh. I'm getting so very tired of having this conversation with him. "This is her time. She's supposed to die. She _has_ to die."

"Renet, I don't care what bull Lord Simultaneous has fed you. Fate is like alchemy, astrology, and invisible pink unicorns. It isn't real."

"Donny …"

He gives me a weary smile, strained and pulled tight at the corners. "Til we meet again, Renet." Pulling a blinking piece of electronics from his belt—that damn time portal he invented—Don pressed a few buttons, and the familiar blue light once again enveloped him from head to toe. "And we _will_ meet again."

With a final flash of light … he's gone.

I lean against the bricks in the alleyway and close my eyes. Thinking about the last twenty-seven times I've gone through tonight, I begrudgingly marvel at Don's sheer ingenuity. He's tried stopping the attack directly, he's tried keeping April from leaving her apartment, he's tried warning his younger, past self. He's gone to extremes. Like attempting to prevent April from even meeting him and his brothers. Like trying to assassinate that Foot woman. But for some reason he always comes back to tonight in particular, to try yet again.

Oh, yes, his inventiveness is nearly endless. So much the worse for me, of course. I'm sure that I—that _we_—will have to live through tonight another twenty-eight times. At the very, very least.

"Renet."

This is another conversation I'm sick of having.

Opening my eyes, I see young Don standing at the alley's entrance, framed against the streetlight, an indistinct silhouette, darkness against light. His heavy breathing echoes off the surrounding buildings. Then he begins walking towards me, and I watch numbly. Even though it's dark I can see how his plastron glistens faintly. Blood. But not his blood.

He reaches me and stares deep into my eyes. It's completely unnerving. His eyes are white and mysterious and so heartbreakingly empty, almost dead.

Licking his lips, he begins, "You … you knew she was going to … and I was trying to stop it from … and you—you _knew_, and you …" He breaks off and stares at me in miserable silence.

"Donny, I can't let anyone do anything that will contaminate the timeline." I swallow thickly. "Not even you."

A cry escapes his throat, and he lurches forward. Involuntarily I pull back, as he falls to his hands and knees in the dirty alley. As always, he begins throwing up, noisily and messily.

Shame rips through me. And any trace of irritation from before? Gone in an instant. _This_ Don isn't my adversary. He's still only a boy, really. A poor boy who's lost someone he loves. Crouching beside him, I rub his shell as he gets sick. A tiny bit of vomit splatters onto my boot, but we both pretend that it didn't. Finally he finishes and, as always, I gently pull him into my arms. He hesitates for a moment—just a moment—before wrapping his arms around my waist and burying his face against my neck.

His tears are hot. Scalding.

The sobs rack his body, and I hold on as tight as I dare. I whisper soft words in his ear. I tell him I'm sorry, over and over, but I don't think he hears me. Still I feel compelled to tell him. I don't know why. I just do. I always do. As always, my own tears come soon enough, streaming down my face, down my cheeks, down my neck, where they mix freely with Don's own.

And I know that he will remember this moment. Even through the years of grief and pain, even though he will always blame me, he remembers that this moment too is a part of tonight. Sometimes I think this is the only reason that, with every trick and trap Donny has tried over time, he's never once tried to kill me. He never will. He can't. Which means that tonight, as always, will never be truly over.


	2. Anger

Author's Notes: I began writing this as a separate one-shot, but pretty soon in, I realized how much this covers the same ground I did in "Sisyphus." And so a multi-chaptered story was born.

Besides, I'm terrible at keeping one-shots as one-shots.

**Chapter 2: Anger**

I've always listened to my instincts, and in return, my instincts tend not to let me down. That's how I knew it was okay to trust that weird little green dude who went at me in an alley while wielding over-sized forks. That's also how I knew when I met this pushy, pissed-off broad—in an antiques shop, of all places—that I was looking at my future wife.

And that's how I know, as I stand here, looking from one door to the other and back again, which door to take.

Still, I bite my lip before heading to the right. Normally I'd go left, to the room with weights and punching bags and the stale smell of sweat. And earlier, when I first pulled off the manhole cover and started climbing down the ladder, that's the room I'd been thinking about. But now that I'm here, my instincts say, _Go to the other door._ So I do.

Inside it's a whole other world—rows of flashing lights, scrap metal, computers whining softly. Smells a little like motor oil, for some reason. I pause in the doorway, blinking, taking it all in. Though I know I've been in here at least once before, I can't remember when that might've been.

Don't know why, but all of a sudden, I really wish I could remember.

He's sitting at the large desk in the corner. No surprise there. But I'm a bit surprised when I notice that the computer isn't turned on. The monitor's totally blank.

I wait to be invited in, since I know that he knows I'm here. Nervously I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Finally, not looking up, he mumbles, "Hey, Casey."

"Hey there, Donny." I swallow and send up a quick prayer that my instincts really are right about this.

"Raph's not here."

I nod. Noticed that little fact when I peeked into his room. "Thanks, bro, but I ain't lookin' for Raph."

Donny's head turns towards me, and behind his mask his eyes narrow. If I was talking to his hothead brother, I'd figure that meant he was angry. But since this is Don, I'm guessing it just means he's being all thoughtful. At least, that's what I hope it means.

Leaning against the doorway, I try to look casual but feel like I'm failing miserably. I can't help it, though. Anybody would squirm under the kind of intense, mutant stare I'm currently on the receiving end of. Time to just come out with it, I decide. Not like I could hide anything from him anyways, right?

"Actually, Don, I came lookin' for _you_."

"For me?" His words come a little too fast, kind of rushed, kind of breathless. Not like Donny. "Why me?"

"Ya know why."

"Really I don't. Enlighten me, Casey."

The sarcasm's not like him either, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something I shouldn't. _He's just lashing out because he's hurt,_ I remind myself. The way me or Raph would with our fists, Donny's doing with words. Always words with Donny. With April, too.

But words aren't going to fix what hurts. As for what I'm about to propose? I got no idea. We'll just have to see. It's kind of like an experiment, now that I think about it. An experiment. Don should like that, right?

"It's past time," I declare out loud, "that somebody goes after those Foot creeps what got April's blood on their hands."

Sighing, Don replies in a tired voice, like he's resigned to the inevitable, "And I can only imagine you intend to be that aforementioned somebody."

"You know me too well." I flash him an empty smile. "So. Wanna come along for the ride?"

He snorts at my offer. "Wrong turtle, Casey. If you look carefully, you'll see that my mask is purple. Not red."

"I _know_ what color your mask is, wise guy," I snap back angrily, taking a step forward.

Glaring, he pushes up from his chair and points an accusing finger, repeating, "Why me? Huh?" He's really getting himself worked up now. Again, so not like Don. "I want to know, Casey. Why, of all the people in all the world, do you want me for this?"

"Because you're the only one who understands! Okay? Because you loved her."

Don's eyes go wide with shock, like they do in cartoons, and I can't hold back a smirk. _That's right,_ I think smugly, _stupid old Casey Jones figured out the genius's big, bad secret._ And it's not like I had to be some kind of psychic or nothing. Every time he'd look at her, every time he'd see her walk into the room …

April. My April, his April. Our April.

My instincts were right about this. Nothing against Raph—he's my best friend, always will be—but Donny is absolutely the right choice for this.

Suddenly, I feel my throat tighten up. _April._ Oh, no. Am I about to cry? Jeez, I can't believe it. I'm about to cry.

But Don's already turned away, so he doesn't see. "Just let me get my bag," he tells me, his voice all soft and weirdly muffled. "Just let me pack a few things, then we'll …"

While his shell's to me, I reach up and run a clumsy hand over my wet eyes. No good for him to see me like this. I square my shoulders and clench my jaw. No good. Because I cannot cry in front of freakin' Donatello. I'm older. I'm harder. And I'm stronger. It's up to me to keep everything together.

It doesn't take him long to pack what he wants, but I've got myself under control by the time he's ready. Out in the sewer tunnels, he lets me lead the way to the surface. We don't talk. Which suits me fine, I have to admit, because I got no clue what I'd say to him if he were to try to strike up a conversation. _"How 'bout them Jets?"_ No. No, it's better that we don't talk.

As soon as we're topside, I pull down my mask. Next to me Don readjusts the shoulder strap on his bag. Looks like we're ready to rock n' roll. But before I can take three steps, his hand is on my shoulder.

"Wait, Casey. Do you even know where to go?"

I roll my eyes. "C'mon, Don, whaddaya think I am here? A complete idiot?" He just stares at me, stone silent, and I'm starting to think this whole thing was a bad idea. Glaring at him, I continue, "Seriously, I did my homework on this. The Foot faction that's responsible is hidin' out in an old warehouse over by the docks."

But he's already shaking his head at me. "Yes, but what about security systems? Reconnaissance to determine Foot numbers? Entrance and exit strategies?" Don lets out a deep sigh. "We can't just burst through the door with guns blazing, you know."

"Why not? Always works for me n' Raph."

"It's _never_ worked for you and Raph," he mutters sourly, but he's got that resigned tone from earlier.

Which means I'm gonna win this one. I can feel it. Those instincts again. "Look, you got a better plan in that big brain o' yours? If so, I wanna hear it. C'mon, genius. Out with it."

Don kind of straightens up at that, all offended. We lock eyes, and he glares at me half-heartedly. Then slowly his shoulders sag. He looks away and fiddles some more with his bag's shoulder strap.

Grinning, I take this as a go-ahead sign. It's about as close to one as I'm going to get. Keeping to the shadows, I head towards the docks with Don right on my heels. Once or twice he grabs my arm, to hold me back, and tense seconds pass as he listens for some kind of danger I don't seem able to hear. Then he lets go of my arm, and we continue cautiously.

It's not far. We covered most of the distance while in the sewers—I figured that was at least a little more stealthy than running around topside, and I haven't been hanging around ninjas as long as I have for _nothing_—and before I know it, we're sitting on top of the warehouse, peering down through a skylight. Don unzips his bag and pulls out some binoculars.

He doesn't offer to share, and I don't ask. Instead I wait for him to conclude his little peep show before asking, in as quiet a voice as I can manage, "So what's the deal down there?"

"Twenty ninjas that I counted. All armed to the teeth, naturally. Some banks of computers, purpose currently unknown. There's also some mech-weapons."

"Sounds like a real party." Standing up, I give my trusty baseball bat a twirl. "I say we crash it."

Don frowns up at me. "Wait a minute, Casey."

"What is it _now_?" I groan.

"How do you know that these are the particular ninjas that attacked us that night? If they're not … we could end up killing innocent men."

"They're Foot, Don! None of 'em are innocent!"

Still stubborn, he continues in that cool, logical way of his, "Be that as it may, we should think this through and …"

See, that's exactly what I don't want to do: think. Because when I think about things, _really_ think about things, it hurts so bad I can't even breathe. A life without April? A life without the best thing that ever happened to me? No. My brain can't even wrap itself around that concept. It's too big, it's too much.

April … my April …

No, no more thinking. It's time for action. And so, before I can hear the conclusion to Don's little lecture, I turn and jump through the skylight.

"Goongala!"

But I must not be as young as I used to be, because as soon as I hit the concrete floor of the warehouse, I feel an explosion rip up my legs. I stumble a little—can't help it. Oh, man, that really, really hurts. Before I can reflect further on my old age, though, some fresh new pain distracts me as the nearest ninja kicks me square in the stomach. I go flying and don't stop until I hit the wall.

While trying to catch my wind, I notice four bad guys bearing down on me. I push myself up and lunge while swinging my bat. One goes down immediately, and I catch another on my backswing. Sadly, my rebound's pretty short-lived. The other two ninjas each grab one of my arms and, all of a sudden, there's a third who's aiming a sword directly towards my Adam's apple.

Then, right before I become the Ghost of Sleepy Hollow, the sword slams to a halt. I blink. Huh. Not dead. I blink again. That's when I see the bo a few centimeters in front of me, just barely holding back the sword.

"Thanks for the save," I call out, while ducking out of beheading range.

Don throws me a look, somewhere between irritated and amused, then knocks out the sword-wielding ninja.

We're in business now. Swinging my bat like a machete, I knock down a few more ninjitsu goons before they can even get in a lick. And I find that reassuring. I really do. Maybe I'm not so old, after all. I even forget that my legs hurt, and I'm starting to feel pretty good about how things are going—heck, maybe I'll even get back home early and save some money on the babysitter—when suddenly I hear Donny grunt in pain.

I glance over. He's got at least ten attackers on him, and I can tell that he's losing ground. Damn. Even from the great beyond, April would _kill_ me if I let anything happen to her Don. So I quickly sprint over and start yanking ninjas off of him.

"Casey! Watch out for—"

The next thing I know, I'm waking up in the sewers, staring up at a cracked, dripping ceiling and wondering where on earth the pounding in my head came from. The last time I had a headache like this was after that night I downed a whole bottle of tequila. Groaning, I try to sit up but find myself being pushed back down.

"Easy there." Don's voice, low and gentle. As I feel something being pressed into my hand, he commands, "Here, take these."

I look down to see that I'm holding a bottle of aspirin. After popping off the lid, I swallow a good handful. Ugh. Dry swallowing. "So, what was the final score? We get all of 'em?"

Donny sighs. "No, I'm afraid not."

I pause to let this sink in. Suddenly I get an uncomfortable suspicion and, sitting up just enough so that I can get a good look at him, I ask, "We get _any_ of 'em?"

"Uh … not so much." He winces and looks away. "After you went down, my priority was getting you to safety."

Closing my eyes, I lay back down. "Ya shoulda left me. Ya shoulda finished the job yourself, Don."

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I wasn't going to leave you."

"Well, ya shoulda!"

"Casey." His voice is all patience and tolerance and pretty rainbows, and it seriously pisses me off. "Casey, you've got a child. A child who needs you. There was no way I was going to let you just die back there. Let alone in a dingy warehouse, of all places."

I growl a little in frustration. As much as I hate to admit it, he's got a point there. My kid does need a daddy. Even if that daddy happens to be a nutjob named Casey Jones.

"Besides," Don adds quietly, "it's my fault that she's dead. I couldn't live with myself if I got you killed too."

"What kinda crazy talk is that? It ain't your fault."

"I was there, Casey. I could have protected her. I _should_ have protected her."

Thoughtfully I bite my lip. Huh. As I lie here, with every throbbing vein in my forehead threatening to burst right out of my skull, I wonder what I should say. Talking isn't really my big thing, but still, I should say something, right? Right.

"Donny …" I take a deep breath. I don't want to mess this up. "Donny, it ain't nobody's fault but those cowards that murdered her. You gotta know that."

"Maybe." But he doesn't sound all too convinced.

I listen to him get up and walk away, and I kick myself for saying the wrong thing. Stupid, stupid Casey! Before I can get too far in self-hate, though, I hear him walking back towards me. I open my eyes and sit up again. Don silently hands me an ice pack. Grateful, I take it and hold it to my head.

He sits down next to me but doesn't speak. It's kind of weird, but I go with it. Slowly I sit all the way up and, once that minor miracle's accomplished, I lean my head against the back of the couch. The ice feels great. Nothing has ever felt as good as this ice does right now. The roaring in my head finally settles down to a dull thunder.

Out of the blue, Don whispers, "April wouldn't have wanted revenge, anyways."

As usual he's right. So I just shrug my agreement. "Nope. Probably not."

He nods, looking miserable. It occurs to me that maybe he got banged up in the fight too, but before I can ask him about it, he continues, "But _I_ wanted it, Casey." His voice is soft. Ashamed.

"Hey, you and me both, bro."

And then, just like that, Donny's crying. Not just crying, even—out and out bawling, big sobs that echo way too loud off the lair's high ceiling, with tears streaming down both cheeks. I stare at him in shock. Oh, crud. He's crying.

Raph never does this.

Since I got nothing else to work with, I do what my instinct's telling me to do. I reach out and put my hand on his shoulder, hesitating just a little. But he doesn't pull away or tell me to back off, so I keep going and put my arm all the way around his shoulders. And that must've been the right thing to do, because Don leans into me, burying his wet face against my chest.

That's when I feel that feeling in my throat again, tugging at me. But I fight it. Can't cry. Gotta stay strong. Donny needs me to stay strong.

Abruptly he pulls away, coughing loudly and facing away from me. He mutters an apology while rubbing at his eyes with the palms of both hands. For the first time in a long while, I take a good look at him. He looks terrible. But I'm pretty sure I do too. What a pair we are …

And that gives me an idea. Setting down the icepack, I hoist myself off of the couch.

Don turns to watch me. "Where are you going?"

"To the fridge. Gonna get us a couple beers." I know exactly where Raph hides them, too.

Even though I'm halfway to the kitchen and can't see him, I can _hear_ the frown in Donny's voice as he protests, "But Casey, I don't drink."

"Ya do now, kid."

With one hand I grab two bottles by the neck, while with the other I reach for my cell-phone. I need to call the sitter to let her know I'll be home a little later than I expected.


	3. Bargaining

**Chapter 3: Bargaining**

Forty-two?

Oh, bloody _hell_.

Sighing deeply, I lean back in my desk chair and glower at the computer screen. In bold neon-green is the mocking, infuriating number of forty-two. Despite the fact that all my calculations suggest that the result should, in fact, be thirty-eight. Despite the fact that my calculations have been rigorously checked and rechecked, I am getting forty-two from the simulated trial when I should be getting thirty-eight, and it is three o'clock in the morning, and I have run out of my entire meager supply of patience.

Goddamn. Bloody. Hell.

For one brief, lovely moment, I consider turning off all of the computers and simply walking away. But of course that isn't a real option. Not unless I want to hear yet another long, droning lecture about how I'm wasting the government's precious resources—which would be the third such lecture of this month alone—and, by Jove, I cannot do it. My already badly-frayed patience would surely snap in two.

Still, things could be worse. They always can. For all the mindless lectures I must endure, at least there aren't nearly as many maimings as there were with my last employer. I am not at all certain that I'm any more _respected _than I was before, however, and that really is something that needs to—

Suddenly all of the overhead lights cut off. Only the computer monitors remain, and their glow extends a mere few feet. Whirling around, I squint through the dark while engaging in a futile attempt to spot my intruder.

My voice comes out a low bark: "Who's there? Show yourself!"

"All in due time, Dr. Stockman. All in due time."

It's been at least five years since I've encountered them, but I'd recognize one of those troublesome freaks anytime and anywhere. Rolling my lone eye upwards, I silently ask the heavens just what I've done to deserve such torment. First the problems with the simulation, now _this_? Surely I have suffered more than enough in my life. Surely I don't deserve this as well.

But one must deal with what is and not what should be. "Donatello," I reply to the surrounding darkness. "What a pleasure to have your company."

A chuckle emanates from somewhere to my right, and I begin slowly and quietly edging towards it. "I apologize for dropping by unannounced," he explains, "but I doubt I'd have received a warm welcome if I'd told you I was coming."

"Is that why you cut the main electricity? So that I couldn't—"

"—trigger the security alarm?" He sounds amused and pleased and, dammit, now his voice sounds like it's coming from the _left_. "Yes. That is precisely why I cut the main electricity."

I snort. This ridiculous mutant has always thought himself far more clever than he actually is. "Well, I'd assumed that it wasn't because the glow of computer monitors is romantic."

"Oh, I don't know about that. Maybe you just never spent time in front of computers with the right person." From somewhere a mere few inches behind me, he whispers, "I can't imagine John Bishop likes to cuddle."

Snarling, I turn and angrily lash out with both arms. But all I grab is air, and my only reward is the blasted turtle's loud, mocking laughter. Rage rises within me, and it takes a bit of effort to metaphorically swallow it. But I manage. After all, the simpleton has unwittingly given me ammunition.

"It's true that Agent Bishop isn't the most charming of companions. But back when she was still employed under me, Ms. O'Neil was quite easy on the eyes, I assure you." Immediately his laughter stops dead, and I grin in triumph. I'd guessed correctly. I can't resist throwing in, for good measure, "Don't you agree, Donatello?"

A long silence stretches out through the dark. "If you ever mention April again," he says slowly, quietly, "I will kill you."

Pah. It wouldn't be the first time I've died, and almost certainly it wouldn't be the last. Perhaps it isn't only the good that die young, but absolutely it's true that only the good stay dead.

But the hour is far too late for philosophizing. Crossing my mechanical arms over my chest, I sigh. "Idle threats, my reptilian friend, and we both know it. Now tell me just why you've seen fit to invade my laboratory."

Another pause. Shorter, but not by much. "Dr. Stockman, I've come to make a business proposal."

"A business proposal?"

"Of sorts. More of a bargain, if you will. A bit of _quid pro quo_."

I laugh, long and hard, at the depths of his delusion. "You fool! I work for the government of the United States of America. Anything that's of any value at all—I _already_ have access to it."

"Not this."

"You're bluffing."

"Mmm. Perhaps." His voice drops to a low, seductive purr. "But are you sure about that? Absolutely positive?"

Slowly I begin backing up. If I can keep this buffoon distracted for just a few more moments, I can reach the secret emergency alarm. "_Nothing_ is certain," I respond in a dry tone. "Or don't you know your Heisenberg?"

Donatello's only reply is a pleasant chuckle.

Meanwhile, I'm almost to the secondary alarm. Cautiously I reach out, inch by inch, until the tips of my metallic fingers brush against the wall panel. Got it. I grin. Then I press the button. A second passes, then another, but the sweet music of blaring sirens does not issue forth. I frown and punch the button again.

"Found the back-up alarm too."

I scowl into the darkness. Bloody hell.

"Enough with pleasantries." His tone morphs yet again, from soft to hard. "To put it quite simply--I have the mutagen."

"The mutagen? The mutagen is _gone_, just like those damned Utroms."

He laughs, and even that is a harsh sound. "True! But you forget that we had a container of the original mutagen. And from its microscopic remnants, I was able to genetically re-engineer that mutagen's formula."

Some foolish, deep-buried hope within me leaps at hearing these words. I have not had an opportunity to play with Utromic mutagen since the Outbreak--after that, every last drop of the substance was methodically destroyed, on the government's orders. Such a terrible, tragic waste it was, too. And it _is_ plausible that the turtle has found a way to revive it ...

Still. Some measure of restraint is prudent. "If I were to believe you," I begin, ensuring that my voice drips with my skepticism and disdain, "then clearly you're quite the genius. And what, pray tell, could such a genius as yourself possibly want from little old me?"

"Your time portal."

How the hell does he know about the project I'm working on? It's highly classified! Spluttering, I reply, "I beg your pardon?"

"Just the schematics. I don't require the actual prototype."

At that I burst out laughing. "Ah, dear, dear Donatello! The years have not been kind to you, have they? For surely, you have lost your mind."

The silence that follows is so long that I wonder if perhaps he's simply left. Then, through the pitch black comes his voice once again, sounding quiet and tired: "Maybe you're right, Baxter. Maybe I have."

I hear his footsteps, echoing loudly off the steel walls of my laboratory, as he begins walking away. It strikes me as odd, but I can't place my finger on why. Until finally I realize--he _wants _me to hear him. He's one of those blasted ninja, and if he wanted his retreat to be silent, it would be. I ponder over the import of all this.

I ponder over all the wonderful, glorious things I could do with mutagen. Especially since I could play with it without the burden of Bishop's omnipresent supervision.

Finally, Donatello's footsteps reach the far side of the room.

"Just ... just a moment!" If I still had lungs, now would be the moment I'd take a deep breath. "_Only_ the schematics?"


	4. Depression

**Chapter 4: Depression**

"C'mon … _c'mon_. I know this can work …"

From where I stand in the corner, I watch my young friend as he glares with naked hatred at the nonfunctional device before him. I idly ponder over whether I should suggest, yet again, that he take a brief respite. But ultimately I decide against it. Looking at Donatello's glazed, tired eyes, I know that the suggestion will not go over any better this time than it did the last.

Still, I must try _something_.

"Donatello," I begin carefully, soothingly, "perhaps if we were to ask Professor Honeycutt to take a look and offer his input?"

His head snaps up to stare at me for several long moments. Then his mouth widens into a smile. "Professor Honeycutt," he repeats thoughtfully. "I didn't think of that …"

I allow myself a smile as well, smaller and more restrained. "Yes. We can contact him, first thing tomorrow morning--"

"No!" Donatello's glare is sharp and filled with reproach. "I know what you're trying to do, and it won't work. I won't be distracted."

Sighing, I try again, "You are weary, my friend. We are both weary."

"I'm _fine_, Leatherhead."

I say nothing to that, though I know this is untrue. Donatello is not "fine." Not in the least. I would say that he could not possibly be further from "fine," but truly, I fear that things may yet become worse before they become better.

If they become better.

Shaking my head, I move towards my lair's improvised kitchenette. It is small but serviceable. Gathering a kettle and cups, I begin to prepare some herbal tea. Although generally I am fond of earl grey, the current moment seems to call for herbal--it is relaxing and without caffeine. On the other side of my lair, Donatello continues working in silence. He is either ignoring me or merely so engrossed in his work he takes no notice of my presence.

I wait for the kettle to boil and, while waiting, I take the opportunity to again study my friend while he is unawares. He sits at my work table, shoulders hunched, head bent towards the project on the table. He looks as though he hasn't slept in days. I would not be surprised if this was, in fact, the case.

They say obsession can drive a man insane. I can only wonder what obsession does to a turtle.

As the kettle begins to whistle, I remove it from the stove's range. I pour hot, steaming water over the tea bags in one cup, then the second. Almost despite myself I lean forward, eager to breathe in the inviting aroma. Then I glance back towards my friend. He is still wrapped up entirely in his project. Still unaware. Frowning thoughtfully, I reach for a bottle in the cabinet.

Sedatives. Odorless and nearly tasteless when dissolved into a beverage. Part of me cannot believe I am even considering such a course of action. Another part of me still has trouble believing that Donatello has reached a point where it has become necessary for me to consider this. I am not unsympathetic, of course, but I am worried. I am much more worried than I think he realizes.

But for now I decide against the sedatives. Turning back towards Donatello, I stand at the counter and sip my tea. No, I will not use the sedatives. Not until I've exhausted my other options.

"Tell me, Donatello," I say aloud, "how are things?"

His head slowly lifts up, and he eyes me suspiciously.

I force a smile that I hope looks natural. "We've spent so much time working over the last few weeks. I thought perhaps it would be nice to merely chat as friends." When he continues in his silent staring, I add, "Just for a brief while."

"Things are fine," he replies shortly.

Again, that word! I am growing so very weary of hearing about how _fine_ everything is. For a moment, I feel a slow heat begin burning in my chest. My vision grows hazy at the edges, and the world turns red. I close my eyes. Not now! I cannot afford to lose my temper, no matter how difficult Donatello is behaving. It is only his grief that makes him so. After a few long, deep breaths and a visualization exercise--in which I picture calming fountains and serene lakes as Master Splinter has taught me--I open my eyes again.

"So things are 'fine.' I am very glad to hear that. Very glad indeed." Mulling over the situation some more, I decide to take a risk. "And how are your brothers?"

"Fine."

"Your father?"

"The same."

"And Ms. O'Neil?"

_That_ gives him pause. He looks over at me with a strange expression on his face, half furious and half betrayed.

"Ah," I murmur with a small nod, "so you are, in fact, still capable of stopping these incessant lies."

The look he gives me is as cold as Hell itself.

But I ignore it in order to press home my point: "You are not fine, no matter how many times you insist that you are. You are exhausted. You are losing weight. You are socially isolating yourself." I sigh softly. "And you are not healing, Donatello."

His face twitches--but with what emotion, I cannot tell--and then, a mere moment later, he's flung himself across the room and is slamming his fists into my chest, over and over and over. I stagger back in surprise. Blinking, reorienting, I reach out to grab his wrists in both my hands. I stare into his dark, angry eyes, and he stares into mine. His breathing is ragged and too loud in the otherwise silent catacombs. Belatedly it occurs to me that, even in his enraged state, he still was "pulling his punches."

I do not know whether this is reassuring or concerning.

"Knock, knock! Pizza delivery!"

Donatello blinks.

My shoulders slump in relief. I let go of his wrists, take a step back, and glance towards my doorway. "Ah, Michelangelo! Please come in."

The grinning turtle steps inside and waves. "Hey there, you mad scientists!" He holds up a box and explains, "Thought I'd play butler tonight and bring you a little dinner."

"Not hungry," Donatello murmurs. And, without a second look towards his brother, he stalks back over to the work table and picks up a screwdriver.

Michelangelo takes a moment to glance nervously in my direction before looking back towards Donatello. "You spend all your time over here," he says in a voice made soft with swallowed pain. "Master Splinter misses havin' ya around, you know."

An indifferent shrug.

"Not to mention your niece!" Michelangelo smiles, dauntless, and I find myself admiring his considerable fortitude. "I mean, who else is gonna teach her all that technobabble stuff that an O'Neil Tech heiress needs to know? It's sure not gonna be Uncle Raphy, I tell you that."

Donatello's only response is a low, noncommittal grunt.

Sighing, Michelangelo hands me the pizza box and approaches his brother. "What're you doing over here that's so important, anyways?"

"If you must know, Mikey … I'm rewriting history. Or trying to, at least."

Michelangelo glances over his shoulder, quite clearly puzzled, and I shake my head in reply. It is simply too complicated to explain at the present moment and will have to wait. Turning back towards my kitchenette, I set down the pizza on my counter. Then, thoughtfully, I pour the second cup of tea. I stare at the sedatives bottle while listening to Michelangelo's steady, gregarious patter. _He will hate me. _But he will sleep. For a few hours, at the very least. Which is a small victory but a victory nonetheless. Quickly I slip the drugs into the tea and watch with grim satisfaction as they dissolve.

I pause, taking a moment to steady my nerves and strengthen my resolve, and then carry over the tea. "If you will not take food," I explain, "then at least have something to drink."

Rolling his eyes, Donatello accepts the cup. He takes a long swallow and raises an eye ridge. "There. Satisfied?"

"Please finish the rest of the tea, Donatello. It is nourishing."

Michelangelo nods enthusiastically. "Yeah, what LH said! It ain't pizza, but it's _something_, bro."

He sighs loudly but complies. Once the tea is finished, he sets down the cup and resumes fussing over his project. Silently I take his cup, bring it over to mine, and begin washing them. It is good to have something concrete, something useful, to do with my hands. It is not unlike meditating. Once the cups are washed and dried, I move on to a small stack of dirty plates for which I had not previously had time. Finally, after about ten minutes, I feel a hand upon my arm. I startle slightly but manage to not instinctively lash out.

Turning my head, I see Michelangelo standing beside me. "You drugged his tea." It is not a question. But he does not sound angry or even truly surprised. Only tired.

"I am afraid so, my friend. It is for his own good."

"Yeah, you're probably right." He sighs and runs a hand down his face. Then, with a shake of his head and a rueful laugh, he asks, "So! Wanna help me lug Mr. Sleepy's sad shell back home?"

"Yes. Yes, of course."

Donatello is sprawled out across the table, snoring, one hand dangling limply at his side. My heart breaks to look at him. For the first time in these many months, he looks at rest. At peace. Carefully, I gather him into my arms and hold him cradled against my chest. Michelangelo picks up his brother's satchel from where it rests in a corner, slinging it over his shoulder before leading the way into the enveloping darkness of the sewers.

Along the way to their lair, I explain about Donatello's project. About the schematics for a machine that can generate rifts within the time-space fabric, thus allowing temporal travel. I mention the difficulties we have had in getting supplies: the schematics are sound, but they call for highly specialized materials that are unavailable in the average junkyard. Michelangelo nods thoughtfully the entire way. Though I try to keep my explanations simple and concise, I cannot be sure how much he comprehends of what I say.

I do not mention Stockman, and I do not mention Bishop's base. I have violated my dear friend's trust more than enough for a single evening.

We arrive at the entryway to the turtles' lair shortly after I have finished my brief summary. Before I can step inside, however, I feel a restraining hand on my elbow. I turn to look down into Michelangelo's face and wait for him to speak.

He does not meet my gaze. "Don _scares_ me," he admits quietly. "Every day we lose him, just a little bit more than the day before. And none of us have a clue about what to do."

Sadly I nod. I know that feeling all too well.

"This project of his ... that time portal thingy? It's really important to him, isn't it?"

"It is." I stifle a sigh--whether of frustration with myself or with Donatello, I cannot be entirely sure. "It would perhaps be fair to say that he is obsessed with it."

"Yeah? Huh." He reaches out and fiddles with Donatello's mask, untying it and tucking it away inside the bag he carries. For several long moments Michelangelo is silent, as he stares searchingly into his brother's face, before he asks, "You afraid of what'll happen if Donny doesn't finish it?"

"No, Michelangelo. I'm afraid of what might happen if he does."


	5. Acceptance

**Chapter 5: Acceptance**

The rain drizzles down half-heartedly, perfectly matching my mood. Like with most everyone, there are days that I really hate my job. Today is definitely one of those days—especially because this is the forty-second time I've lived through this particular day. Unfortunately, it never gets any easier. But, so help me Thor, this is going to be the last time I watch April O'Neil die.

It's a risk, admittedly. I'm about to bend the rules more than a little, and Lord Simultaneous wouldn't be at all happy if he finds out. If all goes according to plan, however, it'll be more than worth the wrath of Lord S.

At first, things go according to script. Ambush, arrival, interception. Lather, rinse, repeat. But instead of simply stunning Don, this time I lift the time scepter high and, before he can even begin to think of forming a protest, the both of us are enveloped in the scepter's brilliant blue light.

As the light fades away, Donatello's eyes flit around, jumpily, warily, before turning on me. "Where are we? _When_ are we?"

"Aww." I glance around as well--while blinking at a night sky that seems impossibly dark after the scepter's glow--and then raise an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you don't recognize where we are?"

"Dammit, Renet! I don't have time for your little games!"

Laughing softly, I can't resist pointing out, "Actually, we have all the time in the world."

"Very droll." As he continues to scan the area, he purses his lips. "Wait. Wait a minute. Yes, I do recognize …" He glances over his shoulder at me. "The roof of the O'Neil Tech building. But why?"

"Okay. Well. Like, there's stuff I can't change, right? Totally 'do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars' territory, right?" I smile nervously. If I've timed things correctly, I have less than five minutes to explain. "But then there's other stuff, where I have some wiggle room, and--uh, Don? Where are you going?"

He's walking away from me at a fairly fast clip. Though I'm pretty sure he can hear me, he doesn't stop or slow down or even say a word. He just keeps heading straight for the door to the roof.

Shit. This was so completely, totally predictable, and I cannot _believe _I didn't factor it into my calculations. Shit!

I run after him, hustling to catch up. "Donny, wait! Please!"

He stops abruptly, and I almost run right smack into him. I slam on the brakes and manage to stop a few inches shy of hitting him. Then, suddenly, he whirls around. Donatello glares at me through the dark, his eyes just thin slivers of eerie white, and I try not to flinch. I'm not sure I'm entirely successful, though.

"You think I won't kill you." His voice is low and rough, and there's a hint of dark amusement there. "Just because I've been patient thus far, just because I've put up with your incessant interference ... you actually believe that means I'll tolerate this nonsense forever."

He takes a step towards me, so close now that I can feel his breath on my skin, and every good instinct I've ever had begins sounding the klaxons, telling me to get myself the heck out of here. But instead I freeze. I just stand there and listen to his heavy breathing in the dark. Somehow, even though he's at least half a foot shorter than I am, he manages to loom over me. Panic, pure and unbridled, begins creeping its way up my spine.

His teeth flash as he smiles. It's not the least bit reassuring. "Unfortunately, Renet, I ran out of patience. A long, long time ago. So I'm afraid I'm just going to have to--"

I lean forward and kiss him. He shuts up.

Leaning back, I grin with relief as he sputters incoherently. It feels really, truly, amazingly good to hear silence from him. For a change. "So! Ready to listen now?"

Don just stares at me.

"Glad to hear it!" Still a bit shaken, I take a step back to put a little bit of space between us. To regain my bearings. To regain control. "Totally hear you on the patience thing, sweetie, so I'll keep this short and sweet. In a minute or two, a woman's going to walk through that door over there."

He stares for a few moments longer before shrugging. "All right. So what?"

"Thirty seconds later, she's gonna jump off the roof."

"A tragedy. But what, precisely, does any of this have to do with me?"

I wish I could just take the time scepter and hit him over the head. It would be so much easier than trying to reason with him. "Okay, here's the deal. You can't save April--"

"Oh, I disagree."

"--but this woman you _can _save, Donny. It's not, like, exactly the same thing. Or the same at all, really. But! There's totally still time for her."

"Renet, there's one little problem with this brilliant scheme of yours," he replies languidly, crossing his arms. "I really don't give a damn."

Hmm. That _is_ a problem. He's got me there. Luckily, I'm saved from having to answer by the loud, creaky groan of the roof's access door opening. I look over with a sigh that's half relieved and half anxious. She's right on time.

She marches towards the edge of the roof with a purposeful stride. She doesn't seem to see us--maybe because we're hidden in the shadows, maybe because that grimly determined look on her face means she's too preoccupied to notice intruders like us. Either way, she doesn't so much as glance in our direction. Which is probably not such a bad thing.

As always, I'm struck by how very pretty she is. She's tall, graceful, and lithe. Strong chin, button nose. Red hair, pulled back into a simple, functional bun. If it wasn't for the blue eyes, she'd look exactly like her mother.

Donatello recoils at the sight of her.

The walk across the roof isn't a long one. She steps up onto the edge of the roof, and her legs splay out in a wide, aggressive stance. She doesn't look down. She keeps her gaze level, looking dead ahead, her back ram-rod straight.

Quietly, careful to keep my voice from carrying, I murmur, "Twenty ..."

Don blinks and licks his lips.

The woman remains perfectly motionless for several long seconds. Then, slowly, she lifts her arms. Even through the dark I can see the muscles in her biceps tremble, ever so slightly. Still she doesn't look down. For some reason, I've always admired her for that. I'm not sure why, but I do.

Donny's eyes cut over to me, questioning, seeking.

I give him a small nod. "Ten ..."

Another second passes in stillness and in silence ... then Don explodes into motion. In less than ten seconds--in less than one--he's across the rooftop, throwing an arm around the woman's waist, yanking her away from the edge. They both stumble and fall. With a muffled thud they hit the roof.

The woman lies quiet, surprised and in shock. Then, with a piercing shriek, she begins flailing against her unexpected and unwanted savior. Don throws up his arms and manages to block most of her blows. After a few moments, he tries to get up but can't quite accomplish such a feat.

Which is understandable. Even for a ninja, it's gotta be hard to stand up when you've got a hundred and fifty pounds of outraged female sitting on top of you. I have to admit, it's sort of poetic justice, and I only feel a _little_ bit sorry for him.

"Hey!" His voice is annoyed, but it doesn't have anything close to the edge it did earlier. "Lady, please, I'm not trying to hurt you. I promise!"

Abruptly the woman stops her assault. She stares down at him, wide-eyed, breathing fast and shallow. Finally she whispers, "Uncle _Donny_?"

He squints. I can practically hear his thoughts, so intent is he looking at this twenty-something woman, as he tries to mentally reconcile her with the five-year-old little girl he knows.

She fumbles a bit and falls backwards, and Don grabs the opportunity to stand back up. The woman just keep staring. By now she's squinting too, and it's obvious she realizes that there's something wrong with him. Something just a bit off. But before she can figure out what, Donatello suddenly turns and bolts.

He's already three rooftops away before I even have time to call out his name.

Goddamn ninjas.

Stifling a sigh, I give the girl a quick wave then head for the door. I try to push away all my worries about her. She'll be fine ... and, if she won't, there's nothing I can do about it that I'm not already doing. _Que sera, sera_, and all that jazz. Besides, were I to stay, that would just mean a whole bunch of awkward question I'm not allowed to answer.

So instead, while taking the elevator down the roughly ten gazillion floors of O'Neil Tech, I try to concentrate on a plan for finding Donny. I could use the time scepter. That'd be quick and easy. But almost immediately I decide against it. I know Don. He needs time to think, to process, to work things through in that big brain of his. Fortunately, time is the one thing I've got plenty of. So no time scepter, then. I'll just have to do this old school.

I reach ground level and quickly step out onto the streets of New York. It never ceases to amaze me just how dirty this city is. No matter the century, I always end up feeling like I need a bath. Ugh. Glancing around, I decide that I might as well get even dirtier. Fifteen minutes later, I find myself in the boys' old, abandoned lair.

I don't find Donatello, however. Not that I really expected to. It would be wicked good luck to find him the first place I checked, and lately my luck's been anything but good. Still, it's a little disappointing. With a small groan of frustration, that quietly echoes off the walls of the sewers, I head back topside.

I look everywhere but, good little ninja he is, Don's vanished into thin air. He isn't at April and Casey's old apartment or at Casey's new apartment. He isn't at the Saki building. He isn't at that little place in the park, where they buried Splinter's ashes. Finally it occurs to me that maybe he's not even _in_ this time anymore, and my heart sinks at the thought.

But maybe ... maybe he dropped his time portal? Accidentally left it behind on the roof?

There is, of course, absolutely no way he dropped that precious fucking time portal of his. Still, it's not like I have any better idea. So back to the roof, it is! I take my trusty time scepter in hand and, after the familiar blue glow, I'm again standing on the lonely roof of O'Neil Tech.

A slight breeze causes me to shiver. It's gotten colder since I was up here before.

My eyes carefully scan over my surroundings. Aha. Not so lonely, after all. Don sits on the edge of the roof, his legs dangling down over the streets below and his bo resting in his lap. Slowly I make my way over, take a seat beside him, and glance over. His face is half hidden in shadows, remote and impenetrable. I try to think of something to say. Something that isn't, y'know, just another demand for him to turn over the time portal.

But he beats me to the punch. "I was wondering when you'd come back," he says without turning his head. Maybe it's just the dark playing tricks on me, but I swear there's a hint of a smile on his face.

"Uh, well, I wanted to give you some space. To process. And stuff." I chuckle, but it sounds pretty weak, even to me. "Yeah ... so. Have you processed any?"

He turns to look at me. Any hint of a smile is gone without a trace. For several long, silent moments, he just stares into my eyes. It's incredibly intimidating and incredibly intimate, all at once, and my stomach gives a lurch. But I force myself to hold his gaze. To not back down.

"When you said I can save her," he begins again, in a quiet, thoughtful voice, "you weren't just referring to tonight. Were you, Renet?"

I feel a grin slowly overtake my entire face. Donny always has been a smart boy.

Now all that's left is for him to figure out that I'm not just trying to save _her_.


End file.
